I drifted, my body afloat on a breeze that brushed my skin. Weightless, the dark swirled around me, eddying by my sides like water. The sound of waves echoed and slowly came into focus. I felt stone settle beneath my back, uneven and gritty, its damp scent earthy. I rolled over, dust coating my hands, and grunted, shifting onto my knees before looking up.
I was back on the terrace. Opening my eyes, I saw the balcony rail and the ocean beyond. The moon sat like a balloon in the water, feigning buoyancy as it shone brightly in the rippling waves. It illuminated the roses climbing up the balustrade and draping over the cornices, such a deep red they looked nearly black. The buds and blooms brushed one another like whispers. The air was thick with the cloying smell of flowers and salt. The world held its breath, like it was waiting for me to remember why I was here.
And there, standing at the railing next to the roses, was Selene. Her silken, ebony hair draped down her back. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, accentuating the dark red of her lips. Silk and shadowy gossamer adorned her, and she faced out toward the sea.
“Selene! You came back, just like you said you would.” Relief bloomed, fragile and brief, before dissolving into the same uneasy awe she always inspired.
She didn’t move. The breeze off the sea shifted the skirts of her gown. Waves crashed far below us. She was still as marble, a crease between her brows marring her otherwise perfect face. Her hair and gown were all that moved.
My smile began to falter. “Selene?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. When she turned to me, I could see the sorrow etched into her features. Tiredly, she said, “I wish it were not so – but it seems we only meet when bleak things are at hand.” She walked toward me. “Grave things find you, my child. I only make sure you’re not alone to meet them.” She stopped a couple paces away from me, the salty breeze mixing with the scent of roses.
When she turned her gaze from me, it felt like being released from gravity. Turning back to the horizon beyond the sea, her silver eyes reflected the light of the moon, making them almost glow. She returned to the railing, staring out as if she could see the whole world from there.
The roses beside her bobbed in the breeze, their petals glossy in the humid air. Her hand rested on the balcony rail near them, moonlight faintly shining. The rhythmic crash of waves was like the pulse of the world. She looked carved from the cliff itself, unyielding and eternal.
I didn’t speak. I was too nervous about why Selene was acting this way. I waited until she began to speak again, her voice flowing like water.
“There is one who calls his certainty devotion,” she started, her hands curling into fists on top of the railing. I noted her reaction to her own words, wondering once again if the story of her and Dracula had been true. But now was not the time to ask.
Continuing, she said, “He speaks as if no other answer could exist. He drags confession from the unwilling, and names the suffering he causes mercy.” The waves below surged higher; light flashed on the water like warning beacons. This person’s description reminded me too much of Nikola’s control. I could still feel the echoes of his compulsion from my time in the white room.
“He builds his altar from the bones of the willing,” Selene murmured, almost to herself. Turning to me, the air thickened, all sounds dampening except for her voice. “He believes he is purifying what remains of the broken line.”
The roses nearest to Selene seemed to tremble more than the rest, the petals darkening further. Veins of midnight threaded through the dark crimson. Not as if they were withering, but as if the mention of this villain was enough to make them sickly. The scent of the air went sickeningly sweet, reminding me of the medicine my mother had me take as a child.
The broken line? Thoughts of Davor’s experiments, of how Nikola tried to finish his work, began to stir in my mind. Selene never lies, but she’s never straight forward, either. I stepped closer, coming up to the railing and doing my best not to look down at the water churning in the sharp rocks below. I had nearly met those rocks once after meeting Selene for the first time.
Why me again? Why do “grave things” always find me? Curling my fingers into a fist, my nails dug crescents into my palm. My voice was barely above a whisper as I asked, “Do you mean Nikola’s turned ones? His vampires?”
Selene paused for a moment, as if considering her words. The wind off the sea rose sharply to punctuate her next words. “He will hunt all touched by the first sin – those changed by blood, those who survived the morn of the Sirens. He will call it salvation – an ending made clean.”
The reflection of the moon rippled on the sea, reflecting the light and brightening the night sky. There was a hollow boom against the side of the cliff as waves continued to crash against it. More of the roses continued to grow ever darker. Like an infection, the effect spread out from where Selene stood. The air seemed to tighten, the perfume of the roses turning sharp, like sugar burning. Starlight danced in a faint shimmer on the blackened petals, beautiful and wrong.
Her words increased my unease. Nikola wasn’t the end? If he was only the prelude, what could possibly come next? Another predator was already out there with a nefarious plan, and it sounded like lives could be in jeopardy. My throat was dry. I dug my fingers into the railing as if it could somehow save me.
Why me again? Why can’t she warn someone stronger, or at least better suited to being a hero?
But my thoughts didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was warned, and it was up to me to do what I could. I tried to speak without my voice shaking, only partly successful. “Then how do I stop him?” Despite the slight quiver in my tone, a flicker of defiance shone beneath my fear.
Selene turned her head to look at me. Our eyes met, and I saw a mix of feelings – it felt like compassion weighed down by sorrow. The roses continued to darken; the ones closest to Selene began to wither. As if gauging me and finding me ready, she nodded slightly before saying, “He thrives on obedience and silence.” Her voice seemed to reverberate, as though the sea itself were carrying her words. The wind shivered through her gown, making the fabric ripple. Moonlight caught on her lashes, her expression unreadable – a priestess delivering a eulogy for a world not yet dead.
“I don’t understand,” I said, her request somewhat meta in my mind. The phrase was weighty enough that I felt it stumble in my heart.
“Two paths wear his shadow – one of judgment, one of design. You will know him by what he destroys to feel divine.” Her prophesy sounded less like instruction and more like pleading. I wasn’t entirely sure what Selene was, if she was a goddess or merely a vampire trapped in time. But one thing I knew about gods from years of mythology and theology exposure was that gods didn’t plead, especially not to someone like me.
Fog swirled about our ankles from the sea, curling around our feet. Cold air pooled, and dampness began to bead on my skin. The roses continued to wilt, the blackened petals drifting on the breeze that brought in the fog. Silvery thorns were exposed, glinting like glass in the moonlight. I felt a pull to reach for the roses but held back, fearing what truth they might cut into me.
The fog began to rise. For a moment it reminded me of breath on glass – until it began to thicken. It started out thin, barely even a mist, but quickly began to grow more opaque. Roses blurred into gray silhouettes. The scent of salt sharpened, the roses perfume overpowered. Sounds began to dull, as if my ears had plugged. The world narrowed down to Selene’s words.
“I learned too late that purity fractures when touched by truth. And that reason has no shelter from a compassion it refuses to recognize. That is where his faith will fail.” Her voice began to fade and echo, even though she was standing right next to me, as if the fog were a sound barrier and she were at the same time trying to speak into my mind. Her words blended with the crash of the surf below, becoming indistinct waves of their own.
“But Selene, what does that mean?” I tried to ask, but my voice was being muted by the fog, too. “Selene?”
No response.
My voice became more and more muffled the thicker the fog became. I yelled as loud as I could, trying to get any sound out of my mouth. “Selene!”
The world continued to soften around the edges, the sea and sky merging into a washed out gray. I stuck my hand out in front of me, intending to touch Selene’s arm, but there was nothing there. There was a resistance like swishing my hand through airized sand. Waving my hand around then adding the other when that wouldn’t work, I tried to feel for the balcony rail, for anything. Yet it was like I was in a washed out wasteland of fog. I couldn’t even see my hands reaching out for the thickness of it.
Selene’s words echoed on the wind like a haunting ditty. Two paths will wear his shadow – one of judgment, one of design. You will know him by what he destroys to feel alive. I couldn’t tell if the words were on the wind or in my head. They were everywhere – echoes in rhythm with the surf, the way grief echoes in memory. Invisible waves continued to crash, coming closer in an inevitable approach. Small flashes of red occasionally flitted through the gloom – rose petals or blood, I couldn’t tell. Somewhere along the way, my feet had left the ground and I floated. Weightless in the all-consuming gray, my dead heart wanted to race, uneasy.
The grayness started to come back together – vague, familiar shapes: the arm of the couch, the lamp. There was soft light coming from the window as dawn began to wake. I blinked, trying to decide whether the sound of the surf in my ears was still real. The scent of roses lingered like a phantom, sweet and wrong in a world made of sheets and skin instead of stone. I felt something warm and hard behind me, something else heavy draped over my side. That’s right – I had slept in Michael’s bed last night. He was still asleep behind me, his breathing deep and slow.
The details of the dream mixed with reality. I could’ve sworn I could taste salt and smell roses even now. I shifted my body, causing Michael to tighten his arm around me. He nuzzled into my neck, his nose tickling me and causing me to squirm more. He grumbled, voice deep and sleep graveled, making my toes curl. The blankets were a warm cocoon around us, our body heat a contrast from the chill of my dream.
But even Michael’s sleepy attention couldn’t dampen Selene’s words playing over and over again in my mind: Two paths – one of judgment, one of design. What could that possibly mean? They tumbled continuously in my mind like rocks in a polishing machine. Only difference was my thoughts weren’t getting any better at all.
Michael’s arm squeezed me around the middle. He stretched his back, groaning as his muscles protested the movement. Flipping me over, surprising me, he gave me a sleepy smile. “I could get used to waking up like this,” he said, tilting my chin up to place a tender kiss on my lips. It was slow, leisurely, like he had all the time in the world. When he pulled away, he hugged me to him, resting his head atop mine. His fingers traced lazy, sleepy circles on my arm. It was impossible to feel haunted with him pressed against me.
Selene’s warnings were still plenty loud in my head, but my soul felt more settled. Her voice haunted the corners of my mind, but it couldn’t compete with the quiet certainty of being held. Maybe, at least for right now, I could just be. I couldn’t decipher any prophesy yet – I just needed to breathe, exist, and prepare. At least until we knew what we were facing. The grey dawn awaited, uncertain and unwritten.
